


All These Gliding Ghosts

by wheredwellthe_brave_atheart



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: AU future fic, Apocalyptic AU, F/M, Specter Apocalypse/Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 12:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10412679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart/pseuds/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart
Summary: The end of the world comes slowly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My love for these characters is never-ending. Who's excited for the Book of Dust? 
> 
> While we wait for that, here's an alternate future - the Specter version of a zombie apocalypse. 
> 
> Title from Julius Caesar, I.iii. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The end of the world comes slowly.  
  
…  
  
Will Parry shoots up in bed, shaking off the dream-feeling of a hand squeezing around his heart. "Lyra!" he cries, as he hasn't in years. "Lyra!"  
  
...  
  
It does come, though, creeping and oozing through the cracks left in the universes, until no world is left untouched.  
  
The Specters come slowly, slowly, so that you almost miss them.  
  
But those who know what to look for notice, and they try to warn, to protect. There is a long period of denial – there always is, as humans are creatures who search endlessly for explanations preferable to the truth in front of them – but eventually too many are overcome, and it can be ignored no longer.  
  
The response comes too carefully to be effective. Half the world laughs, the other half panics. Conspiracy theories abound, involving aliens, fairies, terrorists, disease, and an angry Earth purging destructive humans.  
  
News reports repeat the same meaningless advice over and over again: travel in groups, stock up on necessities, be wary of strangers; and, eventually: do not leave your home, do not open your door, do not go outside.  
  
Eventually the reports stop.  
  
…  
  
"You don't understand, I've seen these before!" Madam Belaqua's fury is a thing to behold. "We can't sit by, we must do something, we must help!"  
  
Met with fear, or indifference, or both, Lyra resolves to do just that, and damn the rest of the world.  
  
“What can we do?” Pan asks at her shoulder.  
  
Lyra surveys the halls of her inherited mansion, picturing life filling the empty spaces. “Offer shelter,” she muses. “We can build Paradise.”  
  
...  
  
The Angels try to intervene, but their numbers can only overcome so many Specters. They cannot be killed, but only stopped, briefly.  
  
It has to be enough.  
  
Xaphania watches, and fights, and weeps immortal tears.  
  
…  
  
Will doesn't panic when the world ends.  
  
His mother is laid to rest just before the worst of the attacks break out.  
  
At her funeral he wears a dark suit buttoned up to the chin. Kirjava howls all through the service, as Mary's daemon flutters in the rafters.  
  
The next day they pack up his small apartment, and gather anything potentially useful from Mary's.  
  
The terror breaks as they are preparing to leave.  
  
They arm themselves as best they can, and fight their way out of Oxford.  
  
...  
  
Lyra’s home quickly becomes a haven, for the world is rapidly forgetting itself in the chaos.  
  
“This is different, too,” she explains to Dame Hannah, who came as soon as she caught wind of Lyra’s plan. “I’ve never helped by giving peace, you see.”  
  
...  
  
"We're lucky, I think," Mary says one night over a meagre fire.  
  
Will looks at her incredulously before she explains: "Well, we knew what they were, didn't we? We were prepared, we didn't waste time on disbelief."  
  
Will thinks he would almost rather have been ignorant, given the choice.  
  
...  
  
These days, their home is transforming steadily into a fortress, piling friends and foes alike together against the great common enemy lurking outside their doors.  
  
Some days Lyra feels so trapped her skin itches, and she goes out for more provisions, more people to save, more air to breathe.  
  
...  
  
Will grits his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, hoisting Mary into his arms. His friend gasps in pain as the rough movement jostles her broken ankle.  
  
The Specter is gaining on them, with that creeping, smooth pace that sends gooseflesh rippling down the back of Will's neck.  
  
"Faster!" Kirjava growls at his feet, paws flying.  
  
Zephyrus caws frantically, wings beating against the dusty wind.  
  
Will spares a glance over his shoulder, and his foot catches against a rock. He trips, face bashing into the rough ground, sending Mary sprawling into the dirt.  
  
Blood oozes from a gash on his forehead, dripping into his eye. "Come on!" he yells, scrambling to his feet. He tries to grab hold of Mary, but she shakes her head frantically and crawls away from him.  
  
"Go!" she cries, jerking her body upright. "Save yourself, Will!" she hobbles to her feet, and limps towards the oncoming Specter. Will lunges forward, tries to grab her arm, her shirt, anything, but Zephyrus is too quick, flying straight as an arrow into the Specter's grip.  
  
Mary is dead before her daemon fully vanishes.  
  
Will doesn't wait around for her sacrifice to become worthless - Kirjava leaps into his arms and he runs until he can't see straight anymore.  
  
...  
  
“Billy!” Lyra calls, voice hoarse. “Billy, help me hold this door!”  
  
She can hear the cries of people just outside the gates, but the Specters are swarming and they can’t risk the lives of everyone inside.  
  
...  
  
"Lyra?" he rasps, tongue and heart stuttering over the name. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes," the man gasps, gazing fearfully at Will's expression, and at the gun trained at his chest. "Yes, Lyra of Eden, that's what they've called her, in Oxford."  
  
Will steps back, shouldering his weapon. He offers the man a hand up from the ground - he takes it and pulls himself to his feet.  
  
The man wipes his brow. "You really hadn't heard of her?" he asks.  
  
Will shakes his head. "No," he says, skin crawling. "I hadn't."  
  
...  
  
Lyra’s hands are red and raw from washing blood out of the old bandages, but she cradles the alethiometer close. “Please,” she whispers to its golden edges, its restless hands. “How can we survive this?”  
  
The needle swings to the hourglass, to the thunderbolt, to the horse.  
  
...  
  
The man's name is Lee, which makes Will laugh in uproarious disbelief at the number of coincidences which seem to occur across the infinite worlds available to them.  
  
In Lee's world, the Specters had always been corporeal, like in Cittàgazze, but never so much as an infestation until the recent years of outbreak.  
  
"Really not much left of it, now," Lee admits, as he and Will hunt deer along a wide and grassy terrain, days after their meeting. "It was beautiful, for sure, before. But by the time I found a window out, home was pretty much dust."  
  
Will's heard stories like this before - the gaps between the worlds were crumbling, and people were fleeing anywhere they could.  
  
...  
  
It happens under ridiculously ordinary circumstances.  
  
Will is alone, creeping across an open field on his way back to his encampment, when Kirjava’s fur stands on end.  
  
“There’s someone in the trees,” she hisses, slinking low.  
  
Will trains his gun at the space where her sharp-eyed gaze is directed.  
  
And suddenly there’s a woman, edging out from the treeline, gazing up into the forest’s branches.  
  
“It’s like cloud-pine, Pan,” she exclaims, voice carrying easily across the field. “I en’t seen anything like it, since we left our world.”  
  
Kirjava knows what Will’s body is trying to reject, for she shoots forward, darting over the ground while every one of Will’s muscles has turned to stone. He grips the gun tighter, but it lowers jerkily, his arms betraying his brain.  
  
_It’s not real,_ he thinks frantically, trying vainly to steady his thundering heart. _It can’t be, not here, not now, it’s not possible…_  
  
Then the woman turns her face into the sunlight, and Kirjava gives a great cry of joy. Now Will runs, tearing across the clearing. It’s as if the very air is holding him back, keeping him at bay. He is in a dream.  
  
He stops short of Lyra by only a few feet.  
  
Her eyes are wide in shock, and she is just barely out of the shadows of the trees. She is tall, graceful even in stillness, even with the packs she carries. Pantalaimon’s fur is thick and glossy.  
  
His body aches to meet hers, but he stands frozen, holding his breath. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.  
  
As ever, Lyra is braver than he.  
  
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispers, fingers twitching at her sides. “All my life, everywhere, I’ve been thinking ‘ _Will’s standing just behind me. That’s his breath on the back of my neck. That’s his hand at my shoulder.’_ And then I turn around and you en’t there, always.” Her voice breaks as she takes a step towards him. Pantalaimon twists at her ankles.  
  
“And now- Oh, Will-!” she cries, heartbreak in every aching syllable, and at last his hands reach out to hold her tentatively, wishing he could touch every inch of her skin, the bones of her face, the curve of her spine, her fingertips, softly, softly.  
  
It almost feels like too much, after all this time.  
  
“You’re my Death,” she whispers, her breath mingling with his. “With me, by my side, waiting for me to meet you again.”  
  
She breaks the spell, and Will pulls her close, greedily, disbelieving, yanking her body against his.  
  
“You’ve been a murderer since I met you,” she gasps, his lips on her neck. “The alethiometer told me so, and I knew, I knew I could trust you-”  
  
He groans and slides his hands up her torso, over her hips and breasts, the body of a woman. She’s unknown to him, pieces familiar in a package that’s new and discoverable. He feels as though his blood is aflame.  
  
“Murderer!” she whispers, like a chant. “Murderer, murderer, murderer!" Her voice echoes through the trees.  
  
…  
  
As they lie together, Lyra tells him of the safehouse she had built, the people she had saved.  
  
“All of that’s gone now,” she confesses, her mouth twisting downwards. “It was Eden, you see, Paradise – but there was an attack, only a few days ago, and the Specters managed to get past our walls. Pan and I were the only ones to make it out. And we started travelling, until we found a window- and then, you.”  
  
Will holds her hands and wonders how much of this was pre-ordained.  
  
...  
  
Lee thinks Lyra is wonderful, and they fall into easy companionship at first. But as the days and weeks pass, there grows a quiet tension. The air is sticky, hot and murky, and attacks are rarer than anyone can remember.  
  
"Where's the water pack?" Will asks her, as their small group treks up a particularly steep hillside.  
  
Lyra huffs impatiently. "It's almost empty. You know it's almost empty."  
  
"I just want to know-"  
  
"Well, you needn't remind everyone, alright?" she snaps, and she feels Pantalaimon's claws scratch her shoulder as Will scowls and climbs away from her.  
  
This world's amber sun beats down, scorching Lyra's skin.  
  
"Do you suppose...we're out of practice? With love?" her daemon asks in shy voice, his soft fur nuzzling near her ear.  
  
Lyra shakes her head, feeling sweat drip down her spine. "It's not as if we ever stopped loving Will."  
  
_Rather_ , she thinks, watching Will scan the hillside with Lee, _I'm out of practice with loving someone who's here._  
  
...  
  
When they fight, it feels like it did when he watched the world crumble.  
  
It’s after Lee's death, and he doesn't know where it started, but it's far past any point they've ever reached, before.  
  
He yells, hands curling into fists at his side. "Because it wasn’t safe, Lyra - Lee knew what we were up against and it still wasn’t enough! There was no point in going back for him, he didn’t have a chance against them! None of us do!"  
  
She spits back at him, cradling Pan in her arms, who has never looked so fiercely at Will before. "We could have tried harder, Will, we could have saved him!"  
  
He gives a great shout of frustration. "We can't save everybody!" he cries, heedless of his own warnings to stay quiet, unnoticed. His chest feels tight. "You can't do it, Lyra, you can't save everyone!"  
  
Something in her flares like a firecracker, fierce and quick, her anger billowing across her face. "How do you know?”  
  
He turns away from her, seething, wiping his eyes. His voice is hard when he replies. "It's impossible," he says.  
  
Then she’s sobbing, great gasping breaths tearing from her lungs. He whips back around to watch her knees buckle, and she's hunched over Pantalaimon, shoulders shaking.  
  
The sight of her like this hurts like the Knife slicing through his skin.  
  
He drops to his knees next to her, wanting to comfort her, to apologize, to stop himself from having to see her tears and know he was the cause. His fingers reach for Pan's fur, but she pushes him back. He tumbles to the ground with a grunt, nearly landing on Kirjava, who yowls and springs out of the way.  
  
He should have known. Lyra had always been stubborn, and loyal, and unendingly brave.  
  
Why should the end of the worlds change that?  
  
  
...  
  
  
Will brushes a stray lock of hair off her forehead, then cups her face in his wide hand. His eyes are nearly black in the darkness. Lyra sees the firelight reflecting in them, flickering like candles in the gloom.  
  
He draws a shaky breath - and Lyra wants to fly away with him, until there's nothing but cloud-pine and stars, to ease the fear in his heart.  
  
"You deserve better than this, Lyra,” he whispers, his dark brow twisting with guilt. “You deserve better than me."  
  
Lyra frowns, shifting closer, until her body is pressed against his in the dirt. She says, "I don’t deserve any better than you. You’re the best there is.”  
  
...  
  
"Is it to make up for before?" Lyra’s daemon whispers to Kirjava one cold night in an unfamiliar world. "We were kept apart, and now we only have each other. But we have nothing else. No one else. Is it a trade?"  
  
Will’s daemon curls tighter around Pantalaimon. "I don't want to know," she says.  
  
...  
  
He thinks, _the world is eroding around us._  
  
She replies, _I'm glad to bear it with you._  
  
...  
  
They try to sleep in shifts, ever watchful of their surroundings, but one morning Lyra wakes to find their tent bathed in soft golden light, with Will snoring softly beside her.

His brow is unguarded in sleep, so his face looks younger, more like the boy she once knew.

She curls closer to him, slotting their bodies together like pieces of a puzzle.

Pan nuzzles her neck, nose cold in the early morning chill.

"Lyra," he murmurs, poking her. "I think it's time."

Fear shoots through her heart for just a moment, for she sees a shadow outside their tent. But what follows is an immense sense of calm. Her hands strays to the pouch at her hip, where the weight of the alethiometer rests.

She takes out her golden compass. "Are you sure, Pan?" she whispers, though she knows in her heart that it's true.

Her daemon nods and shifts his face closer to watch the needles twitch. Lyra takes a breath, and asks her final question.

Each needle swings without hesitation to the hourglass. Their time is up.

Will opens his eyes and the shadow creeps over their tent.

"Lyra," he murmurs sleepily, joy in his eyes. Kirjava stretches between them, her head butting Lyra's chin. "It's morning."

Tears leak from her eyes, hard as she tries to keep them at bay. "Every atom of me and every atom of you," she whispers, bringing his hand to Pantalaimon's fur. "I promise."

There isn't time for Will's eyes to cloud with fear before the Specter is upon them. His last look is one of love.

...

Not many people make it to the land of the dead twice.

They tell their stories, and climb back up together to the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought.


End file.
